The rain seemed to be abating, though it was difficult to tell what degree it was doing so. The clatter of slicing rain on the roof had been reduced to a heavy patter, while the wind continued to roar, swirling around the wooden walls like a vengeful specter.

Luis sat in the living room chair, looking at the bloody stain where the old man’s corpse had been. After putting Emma to sleep in the back bedroom, he had dragged the man out into the rain. While pain panged in his heart as he did so, the knowledge of the man’s likely fate prominent in his mind, the smell was growing overpowering – enough so that Luis’s stomach had started to push out the remnants of food it contained.

He had started a fire in the stone fireplace. The old man had managed to gather a hefty amount of wood before the storm began, and he had piled it neatly next to the fire. The precision of the pile further drew out Luis’s guilt as it mixed with the fear in his gut. The man’s corpse was going to be devoured by a hideous being, and his face would be forgotten forever. Nobody else was in the cabin, and the few possessions the old man had – which were mostly cluttered together in the back bedroom – seemed to indicate that his love had left the Earth before him.

Maybe he was back with her, then. Maybe his spirit had left his body in the dark cabin, and he had rejoined his love and his family to spend eternity with. Or so his own mother would have told him. Had told him, when friends of his died, when their relatives went missing, when she lay on her sick bed coughing out her lung.

As Luis stared at the orange flames, watching them crackle and pop with life, his thoughts turned to John. A brave fool. He had not heard from him, nor seen him, since his mad dash into the forest. As much as Luis tried to convince his cynical mind that his absence was not indicative of anything, he did not hold much hope. He knew how fast it was – his calf still throbbed with pain. John was lacking a weapon, too. At least he had been able to fight back against the creature as it pursued him. Even if his repeater had been strangely ineffective, it had bought him enough time to scramble to the nearest haven.

Which, of course, had turned out to be just as dangerous.

More surprising to Luis was the fact that Matthew had not returned. Red rage had burned in his eyes, and his knuckles had been white with tension, when he had pointed the revolver at Luis. He had wanted to pull the trigger. He had been moments away from doing so. Yet, something held him back. Not morals. He had murdered his own brother and an old man in cold blood. Something else then. Luis couldn’t place his finger on it. He knew one thing, though: Emma had saved his life. He was sure of that. The girl was small, and her eyes were innocent, yet her heart burned with fire and passion, the likes of which he had seen in Mary.

Had it been Emma that had stayed Matthew’s finger?

Perhaps. Maybe some semblance of goodness, though bound only to his white family, had emerged from his racist heart.

Luis was pulled from his thoughts as he heard small, unsure footsteps approaching him from the hallway.

“Luis,” Emma called. Her voice was timid and small.

“I’m here,” Luis said. He made sure to keep his tone low, hoping that the red-eyed creature outside was far away, unable to hear them.

Emma entered the living room. The orange flames cast dark, harsh shadows on her face. The light seemed to push her eyes back deep into their sockets, and Luis could see deep sadness lingering behind her pupils. To his surprise, she approached the couch and sat next to him.

“I hope John is okay,” she said. “I hope he and Mom and Rose are safe.”

“Me too,” Luis said. He had been trying to ignore the fear in his soul, yet his daughter’s absence kept fighting its way back into the forefront of his mind.

She’s dead.

You know she is.

She’s dead, just like John.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain and the wind outside. In a strange way, it was calming. Before Marta had died, they had enjoyed similar nights together. Holding each other. Finding solace and warmth by the crackling flames. It was by a fire that she had told him their love was real, and it was by a fire where Rose was conceived. For many, fire was a sign of fear, a signal of danger, an unwieldy element with the ability to overtake and destroy without warning. To them, fire was a dancing spirit, a benevolent protector.

And, for now, fire was all Luis truly had.

“Do you think my Dad was dumb?” Emma asked. When Luis looked over at her, her head was hung. Her hair was shining in the amber light, and a sheen of dampness covered her eyes.

Luis smiled, though it quickly turned to a frown. “No,” he said. “I don’t. I think your Dad was a kind man. And a smart one.”

“I think he was dumb,” Emma said. She paused, then shook her head. “No, that’s mean.” She took a shaking breath. Her voice began to crack, her sadness piercing her tone. “He just said that Uncle Matthew would never hurt us. Yet, Uncle Matthew’s done nothing but hurt us.”
“I think your Dad was trusting. Hopeful. He wanted to see the best in people, even when there were bright red flags that he should have paid attention to, that should have caught his attention. Even if that desire gave way to some racism I don’t think he meant to imply. But that doesn’t make him dumb. Naïve, maybe. Dumb? No.”

“He told me never to hate another person. Never to hold that kind of rage inside ‘cause it jus’ eats ya up. But I think I hate Uncle Matthew right now. Right now and forever.”

“Your Dad seemed like a smart man,” Luis said. “But on that point, you and I agree.”
That produced a small smile, which brightened Emma’s face, even in the flickering darkness.

“What was your Dad like?” she asked.

Luis shrugged and leaned back into the couch cushions. “I don’t really know,” he said. “He was working a lot, always on the road. He helped protect people who were traveling east to west. It was grueling work, according to my mother, but it paid well and put food on the table. He got killed protecting a white family when I was a kid, though. I don’t have many memories of him.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said.

“Don’t be. I was too young to really remember it. Couldn’t have been more than four. It was more confusing for me to understand than scary, especially as I got older, as white folks started to treat me differently. I never understood why they treated my family the way they did – with contempt. My mother was born in this country, as was her mother, and her mother’s mother. Their ancestors roamed these lands long before white men showed up on its eastern shores. Yet, all my parents knew – all I have known – is anger and violence.”

Luis paused and looked at the young girl. She was listening. That fact surprised him; it gave him a small bit of hope, which he cherished in his soul. Even if the moment was fleeting, he wanted to hold onto it.

“My mother was given my father’s journal, which he wrote in until the day he died,” he continued. “She never wanted me to read it. Said it was full of sad and confusing things. Said it didn’t make much sense. But curiosity got the best of me, and suppressed grief drew me toward it, both of which were more powerful than my mother’s warning.

“In it, he detailed everything – the snide remarks, the watchful gazes, the slurs, the thrown punches, the food children would throw at him, the times other men on the same mission had pulled out their revolvers and aimed it at him. They always claimed they did it in jest, but my father never believed that, and I’m positive that it was done out of malice.”

“If that ever happens to you, tell me,” Emma said. “Whether it’s me saying something mean or some random man. Tell me and I’ll set ‘em straight.”

Luis smiled. “That’s very kind of you,” he said. “Very kind. But if I were to send you a letter every time a white man was rude or mean to me, you’d be drowned in a sea of paper.”
“I hate to break up this conversion,” a voice said, “but I believe we have some unfinished business.”

A familiar voice.

A voice with black eyes and a gaunt, pale face.

Luis turned his head to look toward the source of the statement. Standing in front of the open cabin door, with his briefcase cuffed to his left wrist and a revolver in his right hand, was the stranger.

Next Chapter: Emma